Not Your Scapegoat Again

The day of the verdict, Simon—my fiancé—begged me to take the deal.

"I know you're innocent, but Nancy's pregnant. I can't let her go to jail."

Tears. Fake concern.

"This is for your own good," he said, holding my hand.

I signed it.

In my last life, I refused—and paid for it with prison, torture, and infertility.

This time? I played along.

By morning, headlines screamed I'd stolen trade secrets.

Nancy? Front and center.

"Yeah, it was her. I saw her sneak into Johnston Group with my own eyes!"

But when court opened that afternoon, Clark—yes, the plaintiff—stepped up and dropped the case.

Then, in front of everyone, he pulled out a ring, dropped to one knee, and said,

"Heidi Wynn, this time... will you marry me?"

The second I signed that plea deal, Simon's eyes lit up.

Caught him staring—he switched to some fake sad face.

"Heidi, relax. I'll hire the best lawyer. Once you're in, I'll pull a few strings, get you out early."

I bit back a laugh. "Save it."

He looked all flustered. "Heidi! I know you're upset, but you can't just give up. Think about your parents—"

Blah, blah, fake concern on full blast.

If I hadn't lived through it all before, maybe I'd have fallen for it.

Last time, the second I refused to plead guilty, he flipped. Faked evidence. Had inmates use cold, sharp tools to rip away any chance I had at being a mom.

I hated him. He was the one who got Nancy to steal Johnston Group's secrets—just so he could cash in.

And somehow I was the one who got wrecked?

"Heidi?" His voice cut through. "You look pale."

I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms.

"I'm fine," I said with a shaky smile. "Just nervous about jail."

Simon reached for my hand—nope, I pulled back.

He blinked, caught off guard, but he was too busy gloating over that signature to care.

He slid the paper into his briefcase like it was gold.

"I'll show this to the judge in three days," he said. "Till then, it's our little secret."

I just nodded. Real quick.

After signing, I got out on bail.

Outside the courthouse, Simon opened the car door like he used to—hand over my head and all, acting like nothing changed.

Still rocking the fake-fiancé look, he gave me those soft eyes. "Heidi, let me take you home."

Home? Yeah, right.

That villa was packed with memories, but it wasn't mine anymore.

The second we walked in, some strong, cheap perfume smacked me in the face.

Everything had changed. My clean, minimalist style? Gone. Replaced with tacky junk.

Even our wedding photo got shoved in a dusty storage room.

When he saw me staring at it, his face twitched—embarrassed for a sec—then boom, back to fake-sweet mode.

"All of this was Nancy's idea..."